For whatever reason would someone bear-and-or-acquire three children other than to raise up a small army of subsidiary house-cleaners, laundry-folders and cooks? It’s not like I haven’t toiled in servitude to them for twelve long years now. It’s about darn-tootin’ time they started giving back.
To that end, and also because I am haunted by the fact that she is technically two-thirds of the way raised and only approximately one-twenty-fifth of the way imbued with common sense, I have made it my summer goal to teach my eldest to cook. By the time I was her age I’d been entrusted to inhabit the house by myself in the hours between arriving home from school and my parents’ return from work; also I was expected to prepare at least the beginnings if not the entirety of dinner for the family. For at least a year. Five times a week. And don’t think I got a pass on dinner-duty throughout the weekends.
That’s not to say my offerings were always a success. I’m still teased about the time I misunderstood the “t” notation in a recipe and produced something with approximately three times the necessary salt. Or the time I turned the oven temperature dial but not the on-off dial. But those and many other failures eventually produced an adult who can, most days, assemble with a great deal of speed and not much fuss something that’s nutritious, attractive and palatable to all but the pickiest of my little eaters, who is, as you might imagine, the eldest.
She is also the most resistant to change, so when I told her of my scheme I expected a very great demonstration of angst. She did not disappoint; in asking her to find a suitable pot with which to boil water I effectively ruined her life. In demanding that she snap the green beans I was the cause of an almost broken finger. And it all, all of it, everything served to upset the calm she seeks to cultivate in the pursuit of such soothing-to-her activities as reading a book while cuddling the cat while listening to Taylor Swift, or scootering while listening to Taylor Swift, or gazing off into the distance while listening to Taylor Swift.
But I am nothing if not a dreadful witch and the destroyer of every joy my children might find and I will not relent in this pre-teen’s education. We’ve already tackled scrambled eggs, hard-boiled eggs, bacon, biscuits and muffins from a mix, fresh fruit salad, pasta and lettuce-based salads. Additionally all of the little darlings can help themselves to the makings of a decent breakfast — yogurt, toast, cereal, fruit, milk — as well as sandwich fixings for lunch.
In other words, I could be stretched out cold on the living room floor with the cats eating my face and my offspring would not starve. This is a start, right?
Why I bet with a little dedication by the end of the summer I can have them trained as follows: A cooling selection of fruits, meats and cheeses will be artfully arranged upon a platter by the eldest child while I lounge upon the porch with a book in one hand and in the other a sparkling beverage prepared by the middle child. Palm-frond fanning will be supplied by the youngest child.
Anyone want to join me?
…you have some of the usual things women want in a lover…but then, weeeeeeeeeeell you are definitely not the garden variety woman are you sweetness…so build-a-lover, where you can add those lil extra features you like, well i’m thinking a store like that might do pretty well…what you think….i understand sex…like…….i vote for laying on your sweet mound and using it for a pillow….mmmm feel all that womenness getting aroused and heating up…feeling tight things loosen up…you know you do make that top of yours look really nice…but i vote for, tossing it on the floor and seeing if you look even nice …later sweetness…. Smooches, [name redacted]..
